


For Auld Lang Syne: Should auld acquaintance be forgot?

by Cybele2013



Series: For Auld Lang Syne [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP: Epilogue Compliant, Infidelity, Kink, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:19:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cybele2013/pseuds/Cybele2013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus' grand plans for a quiet afterlife are thwarted when the last person on Earth he wants to see stumbles in out of the cold.  Rating for future parts of this series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Surprise!

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Toluene for the beta work. All remaining errors are entirely my own. This is dedicated to all the talented authors in this fandom who keep me coming back for more year after year.

The knock was mistaken for the wind. It was an easy enough mistake given the winter blizzard gusting outside the little Swiss chalet. It had been blowing for three days with a high pitched whistle, rattling windows and otherwise upsetting the quiet peace of the little mountain cabin. Severus’ ears perked up at the timid noise, his heart momentarily stopping. After a moment, he dismissed it as impossible. The chalet, for all intents and purposes, didn’t exist.

The second, louder knock was unmistakeable. Severus stood from his chair in front of the fire, letting his book drop to the seat behind him. His heart beat terror-induced adrenaline through his body. _Impossible_ , his mind told him. The place was unplottable, a secret known only to himself and a man long dead. Dead men told no secrets.

The knocking told otherwise. The door handle rattled and Severus drew his wand, taking cover behind the wall that separated the cloak room from his sitting room. His mind was drawing up possible explanations and rejecting them just as quickly as improbable. _Impossible._

The door opened. Severus’s stunning spell hit the body before two steps could be taken. The wind whipped through the small cloakroom, blowing a fine layer of snow over the floor. Severus stepped forward, dragging the body inside, and then struggled to shut the door against the storm.  
He looked down at the heavily cloaked figure that lay face down on the stone floor. He tried to reason with his rising sense of panic that whoever lay there must necessarily be friendly. Dumbledore would not have carelessly left the coordinates of the chalet around for just anyone to find. As the secret keeper, he would have personally imparted the information. There were very few people that Dumbledore would trust enough to keep this secret.

Perhaps only one person.

Dread and foreboding swirled within him as he knelt beside the body, not daring to follow the path down which his line of reasoning was leading him. Dumbledore couldn’t possibly be so cruel. Not after all Severus had done to make amends. Not after the careful preparations that lead to Severus’ clean break. No loose ends. Nothing to keep him. _Tabula rasa_. For once, miraculously, everything had gone to plan. 

This was not part of the plan.

Severus gritted his teeth and took a steeling breath. He took the figure by the shoulder and rolled the body over. At the sight of the pale face, those ridiculously outdated glasses and that blasted scar, Severus sat back onto his arse and put his head in his hands. There lay the very embodiment of all his regrets. Harry Bloody Potter, back to haunt his carefully constructed afterlife.  
He cursed Albus Dumbledore from the bottom of his wretched heart.  
“Damn,” he swore softly as his mind raced to decide what he would do next. Obliviation seemed like a good option, and Severus seriously contemplated it for a moment. It would be easy. A little fiddling and then he could send the boy away. But he couldn’t exactly cast the boy out in the middle of the blizzard, could he?

Couldn’t he? 

Severus took a deep breath. No. Killing Potter now would decidedly tarnish the bright and shiny new life he was fashioning for himself. He supposed he could revive the boy and then Disapparate straight away, leaving Potter dazed and confused. 

That wouldn’t work either. The last thing he wanted Potter to think was that there was a mystery to be solved. Severus doubted he’d ever have peace again and that the end of the earth would not be far away enough to hide from the boy’s damnably persistent curiosity. There was nothing for it but to find out why the stupid boy was here, and then, when the weather cleared, modify his memory and send him to Azerbaijan. Deciding that was as good a plan as any, Severus raised himself to his feet, stood up tall and menacing, put on his most forbidding sneer and muttered “Enervate.”

He watched as the boy blinked up, hand going to right his glasses. Severus could see the exact moment those green eyes focussed on him. What little colour the winter had left on his cheeks drained away. His mouth dropped open. He pulled himself to a seated position and then scuttled quickly backward until his back hit the door. The boy stared at him a long moment, mouth opening and closing in stunned disbelief. Severus felt slightly taken aback to see those eyes begin to brim with tears that were quickly blinked away. “You’re dead,” the boy said at last.

“Then this must be hell,” Severus said irritably. He folded his arms across his chest, wand still tucked between his fingers. “What are you doing here?” he growled, feeling a familiar wave of fury wash through him at the audacity of this boy. At the boy’s endless tendency to be where he didn’t belong.

Potter’s lips pursed together. The boy still visibly struggled to come to terms with a new reality. “I can’t believe... I... I watched you die,” he stuttered. “I thought –“

“You saw what I wanted you to see. You thought what you were supposed to think!” Severus’ voice grew louder with every word. He tried to remind himself that it was hardly the boy’s fault that he’d been disabused of his assumptions. But Severus needed to direct his anger somewhere and the actual target was currently and permanently indisposed. “I would have thought you’d grown tired of chasing after mysteries, Potter. When will you learn to leave well enough alone?”

Severus watched the outrage rise in an angry flush across the boy’s cheeks. “I got a letter from-“

“Dumbledore,” Severus spit.

“His solicitor,” the boy clarified sullenly.

“You mean he didn’t send it himself?” Severus mocked. His once habitual sneer slid back into place effortlessly. He could feel the vein in his temple throbbing. 

Potter narrowed his eyes coolly. “You might be surprised by what dead men are capable of, Professor,” he spat back with impudence.

Touché, Severus thought silently, but managed not to verbally concede the boy’s point. He could feel his erstwhile anger start to fade under a sudden wave of fatalistic apathy. He’d never win. What an idiot he’d been to have actually believed he’d gotten away with all this. How naïve to have believed that he’d finally been acquitted of his crimes; that he’d achieved atonement. He had flattered himself to think that all his debts were paid. That in his death, such as it was, he’d finally given all he could and that his fate might reward him with freedom at last. Ridiculous.

“Well, now you’ve seen me, Potter. Go on and alert the MLE, the Prophet, whatever remains of the Death Eaters,” he said. “Any one of them might do the job correctly this time.” Severus turned into the sitting room where he’d been sitting enjoying a cup of tea, which was now, unfortunately, cold. He decided it wasn’t worth the effort of the warming charm and summoned instead the bottle of whisky and a tumbler. He could feel the boy’s damnable presence in the doorway and sense those insolent eyes glaring at the back of his head. An irritation that he’d not felt for months crept its way in. It felt a little like coming home. Part of him wanted to weep at the loss of his well-earned reprieve. Another part of him steeled itself for the tedious conversation that was now, sadly, inevitable.

He could hear the boy start to follow him. “Take off your boots,” Severus growled, glaring at the fire that suddenly offered no warmth whatsoever. He could hear no further movement and hoped beyond hope that the boy had spontaneously combusted. He turned to see Potter looking around the sitting room, taking in the small dining area, the absurd bright orange and purple checked sofa with even brighter yellow cushions squatting before the large curtained windows through which the dim, desolate light of the stormy afternoon spilled through. Severus thought he could see the beginnings of a small, amused smile curl at the side of Potter’s mouth, but when the startling eyes turned to Severus, the smile faded. 

The boy straightened. His expression hardened. “Dumbledore left this place to me in his will,” Potter said from the doorway. “On the condition that current residents always had free and unlimited access to it. Then the letter sort of hinted that the person might be you, if you had lived.” The boy shook his head and gave a maniacal sort of laugh. “And here you are. God, how stupid am I? I mean, there was a fire at the shack and we just assumed, what with the war and the chaos of… everything.” He deflated slowly, the anger melting away from his features. “You set the fire.”

It wasn’t a question and Severus didn’t bother answering. He turned back to sullenly contemplate the flames, wishing the boy away for all the good it would do him. Why would Albus do this to him? Severus had done everything the man had asked of him—if not without question, at least without hesitation. He’d nigh on destroyed himself for the old bastard and this was his repayment. An old, familiar lament began circling his head. Why me? 

It was a question, the answer to which he didn’t like to contemplate.

He could hear the dull thud of the boy’s boots hitting the floor and the soft shuffle of socks sliding over the wooden floor of the chalet. “I’m not here to turn you over to anyone,” Potter said quietly.

“Why are you here?” Severus grinded out through clenched teeth.

“I had to know.”

“Well, now you know,” Severus muttered. The question was what would the boy do with the information? It was a question Severus couldn’t bring himself to ask just yet. His entire future hinged on the meddling little brat’s capacity for discretion. This sad knowledge did not inspire him to make plans.  
He could hear the boy give a petulant snort before walking over to sink into the chair opposite him. Severus’ eyes focussed on the boy’s big toe, poking through a worn black sock. The toes curled under his gaze, the exposed one hiding itself under the other foot in shame. With all the riches at the boy’s disposal, he wondered why he would bother with holey socks. The question seemed quite beyond the more immediate subject and so Severus let it go and let his eyes travel upward over the too baggy jeans, the green knitted Weasley jumper with the letter H branded in yellow. It might have been the oversized clothes, but the boy appeared smaller than Severus’ remembered him, gaunter. His hair had always been hopeless, and the stocking cap he’d been wearing had done nothing to improve it. Those eyes, rendered colourless by the dim orange glow of the flickering fire, looked haunted from behind the ill-fitting round spectacles.

This was the saviour of the Wizarding world? It seemed no more likely now than it had eight years ago when Severus had first lain eyes on him. Only this time, the boy had earned the title.

When Potter began to fidget uncomfortably and averted his gaze, it occurred to Severus that he’d been staring. It had been over seven months since he’d had any meaningful contact with another human being, outside what was necessary for the acquisition of provisions to maintain his solitude. Severus had never been a social beast, and his tendency toward introversion had only been intensified by the long months spent with his thoughts and a well-stocked library for company. 

Severus heaved a sigh and, without a thought, summoned a second glass to pour a measure of whisky for the boy, who probably needed it at least as much as he. He thrust it at him. With a faintly surprised look, Potter took the glass and stared into it as though it held the answers to all the obvious questions racing through the boy’s brain. Severus was keenly aware that if he had any chance of convincing the boy to keep his secret long enough to allow Severus to disappear, he had to make nice. Severus scowled at the thought. Making nice with anyone, let alone this particular boy, was a stretch for him. On second thought, perhaps he could get by with ‘not openly hostile’. 

“Who knows you’re here?” he snapped, intent on assessing the extent of the damage already done.

Potter appeared to be insulted by the question. “No one,” he said defensively. He glared back at the fire. “I didn’t tell anyone about the letter. Everyone thinks I’m in Greece.”

An incredibly unlikely story, Severus thought. It went against everything he knew of the boy. Even Potter’s _secret_ mission for Dumbledore was accompanied by the other two-thirds of the trio of terror. “And why would the celebrated saviour of the world be on holiday alone? You can’t expect me to believe Molly allowed that.” 

“I don’t expect you to believe anything I say, Professor,” Potter said scathingly. He clenched his jaw a moment and then took a deep breath, shaking his head. “I just told everyone that I needed some time alone,” he said, clearly struggling to find calm.

“Your friends?” Severus insisted, certain that there must have been exceptions to _everyone._

“No one,” the boy said firmly.

Severus exhaled a relieved breath, deciding against his better judgement to believe the boy. The consequences if the boy couldn’t be believed were too dire to contemplate. Severus stared into the fire, drinking deeply from his glass. At least the damage was limited, he thought. He would need to get his hands on that letter if Obliviation were to be effective. “I’d like to see Dumbledore’s letter,” he said, trying for a casual tone.

He could tell by the cautious look he received from the boy that he wasn’t fooling anyone. “I haven’t got it with me,” the boy said with an almost defiant tone. “It’s in my trunk at Hogwarts.” Severus met his eyes and tried to determine if the boy was lying. Potter’s gaze turned resolutely to the fire. 

Severus pursed his lips. “You’re back at Hogwarts.” Severus supposed he shouldn’t be surprised by the information. The boy had missed his seventh year at school after all. He would have to finish if he had any hope in pursuing a career with the MLE.

The boy snorted and gave a bitter sort of smile that looked foreign on the face Severus knew so well. 

“Have to get my NEWTS,” he said. “I still need to qualify.”

Severus sneered reflexively. “You expected special treatment-“

“Don’t,” Potter said sharply. “Don’t start with that. I didn’t mean it like that.” The boy rubbed a hand over his face, finger stroking over that dreadful scar as though by habit. Severus found he didn’t have the energy to pursue that familiar theme again. Arrogance. Celebrity. All hail the Chosen One. The whole act belonged to a different lifetime. A lifetime Severus had chosen to leave behind. 

Potter took a long sip of the golden liquid in his glass. His face screwed up in disgust at the taste, but he followed it with another smaller drink. “How?” he croaked after a long moment. “I saw you, sir. I watched you...“ Potter trailed off, the rest of that sentence was caught between a clenched jaw.  
Inevitable, he told himself again. He would have to explain. He supposed if he had any hope of getting the information that he so sorely hungered for over the last eight months, he would need to give a little. 

He took a deep breath. “Immunity,” he said. “I was prepared for the more obvious ways in which the Dark Lord would kill me. Nagini was his favourite weapon.” He suppressed a shudder conjured at the memory of being trapped in the magical cage with the striking serpent. Despite all he’d done to prepare himself physically, nothing could have prepared him for that terror. “I’d begun inoculating myself virtually the moment I returned to service.” It was almost insulting to think that everyone readily believed he was so easily disposed of. He, a Slytherin, killed by a snake? Not bloody likely. 

“You mean... you...”

“It would have been both ridiculously foolish and unforgivably irresponsible of me not to have taken certain measures to protect myself,” Severus said irritably. “Particularly when I’d not yet given you the last crucial piece of information. I am not a foolish man, Potter. ”

“No, sir,” Potter said quickly. “Only... the blood. I saw you...” 

Severus’ patience snapped. “Is the fact that I’m sitting here now not proof that I was successful?” Truth be told, the blood had been the biggest worry. It was unfortunate that the blasted serpent chose to strike that particular spot. But he was prepared for that as well. Severus’ fingers went to scratch at the faint dots where the fangs had struck. “I had something to stop the blood. I’d just applied it when you appeared,” he said quietly.

He briefly relived that serendipitous moment. If he’d ever been thankful for the boy’s uncanny ability to be right at the heart of trouble, it was then. “When I saw you, I knew that I had to ensure you received Dumbledore’s message.” Despite his erstwhile preparations, the venom wasn’t entirely without effect. The pain had been intense - his stomach wrenching as the venom spread, his entire body going rigid with shock. It was all he could do to expel the memories. He’d expected to die then. To die staring into the eyes of the boy he’d spent so long protecting. The same eyes as the woman to whom he’d dedicated his adult life making amends.

His threshold for pain was high, and his attempt at inoculating himself against the venom of that particular strength had been successful enough to earn him some time. His survival was by no means certain, but he had been better equipped than most. “I lost consciousness for awhile, I think, but I came to sometime later and managed to get up. There’s a cave not far from the shack where I was able to hide until the damage done by the venom could be repaired. I set fire to the place when I left it.” 

_Coward_ , a voice echoed in his head. It sounded remarkably like Potter’s. He glanced away from the fire long enough to assess the boy’s reaction to the story thus far. Potter’s eyes met his. There was no accusation there that he could see. If he had to describe it at all, he might have called it amazement. Awe. Still, he felt compelled to make the boy understand. “I was very weak,” Severus said quietly, a little defensively for he had truly run away at the apex of the battle. He’d worked too hard to have this boy believe that he had fled out of cowardice. Some part of him chastised that instinct. What did it matter what Potter thought of him? “I was worse than useless by the time I got to the cave. And then I heard him announce your death.” He only barely got the words out over the sudden lump in his throat. He cleared it suddenly and looked away.

“I heard the beginnings of what I assumed to be the final battle. And then I felt him die,” his hand moved to his forearm. Relief had waged war with the debilitating grief and regret that he’d failed the boy. He’d failed Lily. Again. Alone in the cave, he’d wept like he’d not wept in years. Not since the first time he’d failed her. He took another cleansing breath to will away the remembered sorrow. “It took three days before I was fit to leave. I Apparated to my family home to gather a few last things. It was only then that I saw the news that you’d once more achieved the impossible.” He gave the boy a wry look. 

Potter sat considering him for a moment before blinking as though coming out of a trance. He gave a small mirthless laugh. “I suppose that makes two of us.” 

“Indeed,” Severus said, and then poured himself another glass. He sat in silent expectation of the missing part of the story. He was unprepared for what the boy said next.

“I didn’t help you,” Potter said. “I should have done something, but I left you to die.” He stared into his glass.

Severus waved dismissively at what was clearly misplaced guilt. “You had no way of knowing which side I was on.” 

“It shouldn’t have mattered. The number of times you... I left you to die and when I saw... When I understood what I had done... Hadn’t done.” The boy’s jaw worked over the unsaid words.

Severus found himself shocked at the boy’s distress, and, if he was honest, secretly satisfied. There wasn’t anything the boy could have done under the circumstances, but it was gratifying to know he had regretted not trying. Gratifying, but utterly ridiculous. The boy had saved the Wizarding World. What did he care about a little collateral damage along the way? “You’re forgetting that I was attempting to fake my death, Potter,” Severus pointed out. “If you’d tried to help we might have both ended up dead. And where would we be now?”

Potter’s eyes narrowed in a moment of anger. He opened his mouth to express it, but abandoned his thought before it passed his lips. He shrugged. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now,” he said, as though trying to convince himself. He took a long draught from his glass and stared into the fire. Severus began to wonder just how long the boy had tortured himself over his presumed death. Something like guilt crept into his chest. He irritably squashed it. If the boy was stupid enough to regret every casualty of the war, there was nothing he could do about it.

“You shouldn’t burn all your bridges.” 

Severus scowled at the boy. “What?” 

“That was Dumbledore’s message to you. He wanted me to...” He gave an awkward half-smile that managed to look slightly apologetic. “To be your bridge.” 

His bridge. Of all the stupid things the man had ever said, that had to top the list. To offer up Harry Bloody Potter as the one link to a life he’d been only too happy to bury was beyond ridiculous. The bridge to Potter was the one fucking bridge that needed to remain thoroughly incinerated. 

Severus’ mouth hung open in mute disbelief that no words could possibly express. 

Potter let out a small laugh. “I know. Right?” He shook his head.

Severus hid his speechlessness behind his glass. He swallowed what remained of the contents in one go. 

“He was daft. But he cared about you,” he said. “About us.”

A bitterness that he’d long nursed crept up to choke him. “He cared about his cause. We were his willing and devoted pawns,” he said. He assumed the boy had seen his memories, had seen how carefully orchestrated the plot had been. Contingency plans notwithstanding, Severus’ own survival was a secondary concern to the late, great Albus Dumbledore. “He reared you for slaughter. He didn’t expect you’d come out the other side of all this. You did actually see my memories?” Severus was angry again and could feel his heart thrumming with it. 

“I saw them,” Potter said quietly. His eyes focussed on something far beyond the moment. The wistful smile that curled onto the boy’s mouth was nearly infuriating. There was certainly nothing in the memories shared that would merit such a smile. A moment later the smile had vanished and the boy looked at him directly in the eye. “How much do you know about... my side of things?”

Woefully little, Severus answered silently. Dumbledore had been distinctly tight-lipped about the mission that Potter was on, and the Daily Prophet only concerned itself with the fact that the boy had won the battle, not minding so much about the how of things. After having been in the information gathering business for the better part of two decades, it was a difficult to be so abruptly cut off from the world and all its happenings. But dead men make pitiful spies, and Severus had been in a rather big hurry to get out of Britain before someone started making inquiries as to the distinct lack of body in the ruins of the shrieking shack.

“What were you doing for Dumbledore?” he asked pointedly, powering the words with just enough authority to communicate that after all this time, he had the bloody right to know. Potter nodded as though in agreement before asking a question of his own.

“Do you know what Horcruxes are?” 

Severus, who disliked admitting his ignorance, particularly in magical subjects, merely lifted an eyebrow in response. He added a somewhat impatient look to try and urge the boy forward.

“That’s how Voldemort –“ Severus narrowed his eyes at the word, causing the boy to pause. 

“Voldemort,” the boy continued more firmly, “survived the night he killed my parents. He’d created Horcruxes by splitting bits of his soul off and sort of storing them into various objects. ”

Severus had been ignorant of the actual magic, but he’d expected something like this. What little information he’d been exposed to pointed him to this possibility. “And that’s what you were destroying.”

Potter nodded. “Yeah. We got to all of them, but-“

“Nagini,” Severus whispered. The Dark Lord protected her once all other hope was lost.

“And me,” the boy added quietly. He raised his hand as though to touch his scar, but the hand aborted its mission and fell back to his knee. “That’s why I needed to die. That’s why it needed to be him. When he cursed me the first time, he accidentally attached a part of his soul to me. “

Severus nodded, recalling that Dumbledore had already hinted that this was the case. Knowing it, however, didn’t stop him from momentarily going cold at hearing it from the boy’s own mouth. He could only imagine what the boy must have gone through when that part of the memory was revealed. He vaguely recalled his own horror when Dumbledore hinted at this. Horror. Rage, really. Rage at a man he’d trusted for so many years to help him in his mission to keep the boy safe. 

“I went back to the castle after I left you. I used Dumbledore’s pensieve. And then, well it was clear, wasn’t it? I knew what I had to do.”

Severus listened quietly as the boy launched himself into his tale. His stomach lurched at the mental image of the boy walking calmly and bravely to meet his doom. Gryffindor foolishness, some part of him scoffed. So bloody noble and self-sacrificing. Despite himself, however, he felt a begrudging sort of respect creep in as the boy went on. While Severus himself flirted with mortal peril more times than he cared to think about, he never intended to give his life to the cause. Indeed, he’d done everything he could to avoid doing so.

The scene was alive in his head. Potter, surrounded by Death Eaters and facing off, wandlessly, with the most evil monster Severus had ever had the displeasure to be associated with. It was easy for him to picture the killing curse striking the boy, the way the boy would collapse to the ground, green eyes glazed over and lifeless. He’d entertained that waking nightmare more times than he cared to think about. 

Potter’s recounting was almost poetically simple. Severus’ imagination took the matter-of-fact tale and embellished it with an uncharacteristically empathic detail. When Potter came to the strange scene of the King’s Cross of the netherworld, Severus gaped in surprise. “So Dumbledore knew you’d be safe,” Severus said, unable to keep himself from interjecting as the boy described his conversation with the dead man. “He knew all along?” And he hadn’t bothered to tell him? Severus gritted his teeth against the onslaught of curses that waited on his tongue. 

Potter shrugged. “He’d hoped, I suppose,” the boy said quietly. After a moment, he looked apologetic. “Would have been nice to know, eh?”

Severus’ head dropped to his hands and struggled to find calm. It certainly would have been “nice”. 

“He said that I needed to believe I was going to die,” Potter said. “It wouldn’t have been much of a sacrifice if I’d known.” His brow furrowed. “My...er, death,” he said, somewhat wryly, “was what protected everyone in the final battle. He couldn’t hurt them anymore. His spells wouldn’t work properly.” 

Severus couldn’t help but think that although the boy had to believe he was doomed so that he could properly martyr himself, Severus was under no such constraints. Dumbledore knew what saving the boy’s life meant to him and he deliberately let him believe that he was setting the boy up to be killed. Severus put aside this renewed sense of injustice for the time being, concentrating instead on the hearing the rest of the boy’s tale. He would surely revisit it later that night, and the night after that, and again and again until he had a new hole in his stomach that he could add to the collection Dumbledore had given him over the years.

Potter plowed on with his story – relaying Narcissa’s complicity, Longbottom’s heroics. Severus was bowled over by how close they all came to absolute failure. Had Narcissa chosen to reveal Potter’s unlikely survival, had Potter not run into Longbottom to impart the necessity to slay Nagini – had Longbottom lived up to his history and failed miserably, none of what followed would have happened. Severus had to admit to feeling immeasurably pleased that the Dark Lord knew of Severus’ true loyalties at the end. That the bastard understood the extent to which Severus had deceived him. He had Potter to thank for that. 

He stopped that train of thought before it could form words on his tongue. Potter had surely already been celebrated beyond merit, he would not add to the boy’s already considerable adolescent ego.

Potter’s story trailed off at the end of the Dark Lord. He slumped back into his chair and looked into his empty glass. Severus topped up his own and then set the bottle on the tea table between them. It wasn’t quite an invitation, but the boy took it as such, filling his own glass. At this rate they would both be pissed before the sun set. This, Severus thought, could only work in his favour.

“What of the Elder wand?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“History,” Potter said, with a vague gesture of his hand.

Severus’ brow shot up in surprise. “You didn’t keep it?” 

“No one should have that kind of power,” the boy said with a quiet fierceness. Severus got the impression he’d had this conversation before. Perhaps many times. The boy was right, of course, but the strength of character required to rescind such power was rare. Severus himself couldn’t be sure he’d have that sort of strength. He wasn’t sure he knew anyone with that sort of strength.

“You are a remarkable young man, Mr Potter,” he said softly. He saw his own surprise at having spoken the words out loud mirrored in Potter’s expression. Clearly, Severus had been alone far too long. He’d gone mad. A chuckle bubbled out from his throat at the boy’s embarrassed “Thanks”.

He suddenly felt remarkably lighter. It was as though, having heard the story, having finally filled in all the blanks, he could now be allowed to put paid to his former life. It was the closure he’d been searching for all these months since he’d gone into hiding. “A toast, Mr Potter,” he said, raising his glass, “to miraculous survivals.”

The boy gave a small but sincere grin, and Severus’ heart seized momentarily. Until that point, he’d not noticed the distinct lack of animation in the boy’s countenance. And now he thought about it, he could observe the lingering dark shadow about the boy. As though a light had been snuffed out. The youthful innocence, the dreaded Gryffindor optimism had been yet another casualty of the war.

Their glasses clinked together gently. After a reflective silence, Potter cleared his throat. “I suppose it must have been hard for you not knowing all that happened. I mean, after being at the centre of everything for years.”

Severus nodded, silently applauding the boy’s rare venture outside the bubble of his own world-view. “I knew the essentials: the Dark Lord was dead. And you were not.” Mission accomplished. “I didn’t care enough about the rest to risk being discovered.”

“Dumbledore had left instructions for his memories of you to be delivered to Shacklebolt after Voldemort’s death.” Severus shivered slightly with dread at the mention of the Dark Lord’s name. He squashed the sentiment. The boy had killed the beast. He was allowed to say his name. “The MLE interviewed Dumbledore’s portrait and I gave testimony as well. You were awarded an Order of Merlin, First Class for everything you did. Your name has been cleared. ” The boy eyed Severus for his reaction.

Severus didn’t give one right away. He wasn’t surprised to learn that Albus would have left evidence to clear him. That was only to be expected given what the man had forced him to do. And while the memories he’d imparted to Potter were for the purpose of re-gaining his trust so that he would do what he was expected to do, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that Potter would give evidence to clear him, despite whatever residual dislike for him the boy might feel. He supposed he should be happy for having been awarded an Order of Merlin, at long last. He might have been pleased once.

“It’s easier to forgive the sins of a dead man,” he said darkly. He snorted. “I was always doomed to be appreciated only after my death.” 

The sadness he saw in the boy’s face was puzzling. “It doesn’t have to be like that,” he said quietly. “You can come back.”

And he could. People would likely be upset to see him return after having exalted him to the exclusive status of War Hero, but they couldn’t take it back. What was done was done. Severus entertained a brief fantasy of the looks on their faces were he to show up at the Ministry and demand they hand over his award. But no. There was no satisfaction to be had there. That world was as done with him as he was with it. Let the bastards have Severus Snape and let them make him the symbol for whatever they wished. 

“I have no wish to return,” Severus said tersely. There was nothing to return to. No family. Severus had killed the last man who could claim the dubious title of “Friend”. In the long months that Severus had spent at the chalet, he’d come to terms with the fact that the life of Severus Snape was a life driven by purpose, but bereft of anything else worth living for. While he could never truly make amends for his one great mistake, he’d spent half of his life trying to do just that. The boy had lived and that was more than he had dared to hope for.

“You can’t mean to stay here forever,” Potter said, clearly horrified by the thought. 

Severus shook his head. “I’ve stayed here long enough to let everything settle and because the solitude suited me.” It was a period of convalescence for his tortured soul. The life of Severus Snape, he could leave behind. The soul, however, was his to keep. He’d managed to forge a tenuous peace with himself over the last half a year. The closure the evening’s discussions had offered him felt like the last step in that process. While he couldn’t say he had no regrets, he thought he might now be able to live with those he still had. “I’ve made no definite plans as yet, but I don’t expect to stay here much longer.”

“Because of me?” Potter asked, awkwardly. “I told you, sir. I won’t tell anyone you’re here.”

Severus frowned. “Not because of you,” he said, not quite truthfully. “But it’s time.”

“Oh.” After a moment, Potter smiled at him with all the cheekiness that he’d come to expect from the boy. Severus was momentarily stunned to be pleased to see it. “I suppose it’s good I came when I did, then, eh?”

Severus snorted. “Your timing is as impeccable as ever,” he conceded. And damn Albus Dumbledore for once more knowing exactly what he needed.

The two continued to speak into the evening about the aftermath – the reconstruction of Hogwarts, the Death Eater trials. The boy graciously helped to satisfy Severus’ curiosity about how things turned out after his precipitous departure. He was pleased that Draco and Narcissa managed to avoid any real punishment, and that Lucius was not likely to see the light of day any time soon. He was less happy to learn of the fates of some of his other Slytherins. He had to admit to feeling somewhat responsible for the path they took, although his mission precluded saving them. The lives of the few sacrificed for the sake of the masses.

When he once more found his glass to be empty, it occurred to him that he’d not eaten since lunch. He and the boy continued their discussions over a simple meal of bread and charcuterie and then coffee and brandy. They were both exhausted and not just a little pissed when Severus showed the boy to the spare room – Albus’ old room.

As he lay in his own bed going over the long conversation in this head, it occurred to him that while his vision of the boy saviour would forever be inextricably linked with his memory of the remarkable woman who brought him into the world, he had to concede that Harry Potter was an entity unto himself. His years of spying taught him that once a secret was known it was irreparably compromised, he found himself filled with a blind faith that Potter could be trusted with his.

And that was a revelation, indeed.


	2. Dissatisfaction

Harry was eased into wakefulness by the light of the rising sun seeping in through the sheer white curtained windows. The storm of the day before had passed sometime in the night, leaving in its wake an impossible quiet. Harry’s memory of the previous day’s events was decidedly fuzzy due to a heady mix of emotion and alcohol. One thing remained crystal clear in his mind: Severus Snape was alive.  
He’d slept better than he had in years. While part of that could certainly be attributed to the booze, a larger part of the reason lay in that indisputable fact. Snape was alive. And while that in itself didn’t change the world – couldn’t change the world given that the man was opting to stay dead – knowing the man had not been senselessly killed after all he’d done to make the world safe healed a wound that Harry had grown accustomed to.

He hadn’t dared to believe it when he’d received the letter from Dumbledore. Harry had first been unspeakably sad to know that such plans had been made only to have Snape be brutally and uselessly killed for a stupid wand that belonged to Harry in the first place.

A necessary evil, everyone had consoled him. They had all done what needed to be done.

After the initial shock at receiving Dumbledore’s letter had worn off, doubt crept in. No body had been found. A mysterious fire had been set. The possibility was beyond remote. Harry had watched the man die. He’d seen the light in those dark eyes fade. He knew the man to be dead. Didn’t he?  
Despite the Weasley family’s objections, Harry begged off for a little time to think over Christmas, driven by the desire to put the doubts to rest. No one was particularly surprised by his decision to spend the holidays alone. He’d not been the best of company over the last few months. The funk surrounding him seemed unmoveable, and while his friends tried to maintain their understanding façade, he could sense their frustration with him.

Depression. He could recognize it for what it was, but he couldn’t account for it. What did he have to be depressed about? He was alive and thanks to him, the Wizarding World was safe for now. So why did he feel as though a hoard of Dementors followed his every step and that no amount of chocolate could sort him out?

He went through the motions of school simply because he did not know what else to do. He was working to qualify for the Auror training programme less out of actual desire – he’d fought enough evil, thanks very much – and more out of a lack of any other ambition. It was as though in coming to terms with his own death, in finally taking the decision to die, he no longer knew how to live. 

He’d become little more than a ghost, drifting through the days with no real purpose. Ron and Hermione had grown even closer since the war, and Harry tried not to resent that. He had Ginny, after all. At times when he looked at her he felt a fierce sense of love and affection, but he couldn’t seem to bring that emotion to the surface. To all of their credit, they were patient with him and gave him the space he swore he needed, but all the space in the world hadn’t been enough to snap him out of it.

He didn’t suppose that Snape being alive was going to change all that, but he felt that something inside him had clicked into place. For the first time in a long time, waking up hadn’t been accompanied by a feeling of dread and vague disappointment.

At the moment, he was feeling an urgent need to visit the loo. After taking care of that, he made his way into the kitchen where a pot of tea waited beside a carafe of milk and a small pot of sugar. There was no sign of Snape as he carried his tea into the sitting room, and he’d begun to wonder if the man hadn’t returned to bed when he saw movement out the window. There sat the older man, on the porch in front of the chalet on a wooden bench. After a moment’s hesitation, Harry decided to join him. If Snape wanted to be alone, he suspected he would know about it quickly enough.

“Morning,” Harry said, a bit breathlessly as the sub-zero weather greeted him.

“Morning,” Snape answered, and then moved over on the bench in silent invitation. As Harry took a seat he felt himself enveloped in a pocket of warm air, as though a heated blanket had just fallen on his shoulders. Harry laughed inwardly at the thought of sharing a blanket with Snape. He sat a moment cradling his mug of tea and looking out at the view before him. He’d never seen so much snow in his life. It was difficult to tell where one mountain ended and the other began. The starkness of it all was broken only by the rocky peaks of the surrounding mountains and the brilliant blue of the sky.

“I can see why you’ve stayed here,” he said quietly so as not to disturb the morning.

Snape hummed his agreement. The aura of irritation and bitterness that Harry had always associated with the man was gone. Harry found he didn’t really know how to take the man who sat next to him now. 

“There are certainly worse places to be in exile,” Snape said after a moment.

“Do you find it weird that Dumbledore would have a chalet in a place called Grindelwald?” Harry asked.

Snape laughed, the sound booming out into the morning and Harry wondered at the sound of it. Snape had a great laugh, Harry decided and grinned, feeling quite pleased with himself that he was able to invoke it. 

“Weird,” Snape considered. “Perhaps. I think the Headmaster had a very well-developed sense of irony.”

Harry snorted. “Or he was truly a masochist.” Why else would the man want the reminder of a friendship gone so wrong?

“Funny. I always reckoned him a sadist, myself,” Snape said wryly. He gestured toward Harry. “The proof.”

Although it was said in jest, Harry bristled a bit. He thought he could understand Snape’s point. “Sorry,” he muttered, but in truth he wasn’t really. He regretted that his presence might cause Snape some discomfort, but knowing Snape was alive had proven too important to regret.

Snape sighed. “It was a joke, Potter,” he intoned, clearly annoyed to have to explain himself. 

Harry took a sip of tea and then said, “I half expected you to Obliviate me and turn me out in the blizzard,” he joked. Or mostly joked.

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Snape said and then smirked. “I might yet.”

Harry gave a half smile. While he was certain Snape wouldn’t have done anything to hurt him – which in itself was quite the development – he was much less certain that Snape would let him leave with his memory intact. The only thing that might change the man’s mind was the thought that Harry still had Dumbledore’s letter. A quick lie on Harry’s part as the letter had been set to destroy itself upon being read. “Thanks for letting me stay last night,” he said, redirecting the course of the conversation.

Snape grunted in response before emptying his mug of tea. “It’s your house. Should I thank you for letting me stay?” he asked dryly.

“It’s not, really,” Harry reassured the man. “I think Dumbledore just needed to pass it to _someone_ so that no one else would get it, you know?”

Snape gave him a long look before standing. “I’ll be going to the village for provisions. Will you be staying long?” Snape looked down on him, his eyebrow raised in question.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” he said awkwardly. In truth, he’d not thought past getting to the front door. “I suppose you want to be alone?” 

He couldn’t quite explain his reluctance to leave. It wasn’t as though he imagined that staying here with Snape would be pleasant, exactly. In fact, he might question his sanity for wanting to stay at all, given present company. He no longer hated the man, but they weren’t exactly mates. He’d had a fantastic night’s sleep, however, and yesterday evening went far better than he could have possibly imagined. It was quiet here, and calm, and he could sit in comfortable silence without Snape worrying about what he was thinking and if everything was all right.

“I suppose you could stay if you’ve nowhere else to go,” Snape said, stiffly.

The invitation sounded forced, Harry thought. He looked up at the man to gauge the validity of it. He had a hard time deciding if Snape was happy for the company, but couldn’t bring himself to admit it, or if he was only extending the invitation out of pity. “I could go back to the Weasleys’,” Harry said. But they’d have questions. “Or...”

“Greece,” Snape supplied with a smirk.

“Greece,” Harry agreed reluctantly. Greece had been a brilliant flash of inspiration when he was searching his mind for a likely destination. But as he never intended to actually go there, he’d not exactly made holiday plans.

He raised his eyes to see Snape staring at him. “Do you ski, Mr Potter?”

Harry blinked. “Ski?” he said stupidly, his mind trying to get around the apparent change of subject. “No, sir. I’ve never...” Harry gave a puzzled smile. “Do you?”

“You can book lessons in the village,” Snape said and then turned to enter the chalet.

“Lessons?” Harry said to no one in particular. Was Snape inviting him to stay for a ski holiday? And did that mean he wanted Harry to stay? Or at least didn’t mind him staying? Harry stared out down the steep snow-covered slope that stretched before the chalet. He couldn’t exactly imagine strapping planks of wood to his feet and careening down there, but... 

Well, if it provided an excuse to stay, he was willing to try.

-o-o-

Severus watched, not just a little amused, as the boy delicately pulled off his boots, letting them drop with a dull thud. “I trust it went well,” he said, suppressing a laugh.

Potter looked up at him and glared. After a moment, he gave a little smile. “I can’t imagine that ever being fun,” he said. “Admit it. You only offered to let me stay so that you could watch me humiliate myself and suffer.”

Severus grunted in accordance. “I have waited for years for such an opportunity to present itself,” he said and then retreated to the lounge where a pot of tea steeped. He smirked at the look of sheer ecstasy on the boy’s face at the sight of it. Severus summoned another mug as Potter gingerly lowered himself into the chair.

“Why do people put themselves through that?” he wondered aloud.

“Some of us are good at it,” Severus laughed. Although “good” was perhaps a bit of a stretch. Severus himself had learnt too late in life to be considered “good” by any proper standards. But by British standards, he was practically an expert. Severus set the tray on the tea table, and the boy served himself. 

“When did you have time to learn to ski?” Potter said, baffled.

Severus sat and brought his own mug to his lips. “I spent some time here with Dumbledore just after I began teaching.” Their yearly trips had ended when Potter came to the school. Someone needed to stay in the school to make sure the boy didn’t get himself killed. 

Well, if he were fair (which he rarely was), the first year he’d stayed behind to help to guard the Philosopher’s Stone and to keep an eye on Quirrel. The second year there was the whole Chamber of Secrets fiasco. Third year, Sirius Black was at large. Then everyone was expected to stay at the castle for the Triwizard Tournement. And then it was official. The Dark Lord had risen again and Severus could effectively write off any chance at a holiday until his defeat. 

Harry snorted. “I can’t imagine the Headmaster skiing,” he said. 

Severus smiled as the memory came to him. “I recall being mortified the first time he took me here. He was wearing bright yellow robes with blue shooting stars that he transfigured into a snowsuit. He liked the feeling of the wind in his beard as he skied down the slope.” 

He could see the mental image take shape in the boy’s mind. “Oh, god,” he whispered.

“You can imagine the look on people’s face to see an ancient man in a yellow jumpsuit skiing in overly large and elaborate esses down the slopes, beard flapping like a scarf behind him. Followed by an unsteady, glowering young man all in black. We made quite the pair.”

The image seemed to work, and suddenly Potter was giggling. Severus had hated those trips in the beginning. Hated learning to ski. Dumbledore was an eternally cheerful and patient teacher and, little by little, Snape had managed to get down the slopes spending most of the time on his skis rather than his bum. He could no longer recall what made him agree to go with Albus on these trips. He imagined he’d felt obliged, but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall that Dumbledore had ever more than politely invited him along. It was probably easier to pretend to be obliged than to admit that he’d actually enjoyed the trips.

“I thought Dumbledore always stayed at Hogwarts during the winter holidays,” Potter said.  
Severus shook his head. “We used to leave on Boxing Day. We stopped the year you came, when it became clear that the Dark Lord was becoming active again. This is the first year I’ve been back.”

Harry nodded. “Maybe you can pick up the tradition again.”

“Perhaps,” Severus said. He rather thought once he left here, he wasn’t likely to come back again. He’d skied quite a bit since the beginning of winter, but mostly because it was the most convenient way to get to the village. 

“Perhaps I can join you,” Potter grinned cheekily.

“Of course,” Severus said and then smirked. “I can teach you how to ski.” The horrified look on the boy’s face pleased Severus a great deal.

Potter rolled his eyes after a moment. “We’ve been getting on so well, Professor. It would be a shame to ruin it.”

-o-o-

Harry woke and felt around the nightstand for his glasses, fingers pausing to identify a wrapped item. Putting his glasses on, he pulled himself up to investigate. On the table sat what looked to be a present. No owls would have been able to find him here, so he could only suppose the gift had come from Snape. He’d more or less forgotten about Christmas this year and hadn’t expected Snape to remember it. And now he felt like a right prat.

“Happy Christmas,” he said quietly as he joined the other man on the porch with his mug of tea. “Thanks for the present. I-I didn’t get you anything,” he admitted. “Sorry.” Harry fiddled with the gold ribbon.

“Don’t be. It cost me nothing,” Snape said. 

Harry smiled in question before putting aside his mug and beginning to unwrap the gift. He found a small phial with what was obviously another memory. “What is it?” Harry asked, puzzled and not just a little worried about what the memory might contain. None of the memories he’d seen of Snape’s so far had been very pleasant to witness. 

“It’s a memory of the Yule Ball in my seventh year. I assure you it is quite innocuous,” he said, tersely. “I have no Pensieve, so you’ll have to wait to see it.”

Harry gave a bemused look. “Thanks,” he said, not really sure if he could possibly feel truly grateful for another look into this man’s head. He’d already seen more than was healthy. 

Snape laughed after a moment. “I understand your reluctance, Potter, considering what you’ve already seen of my mind.” His eyes focussed on the phial with a far away look. “This is the moment I realised your parents were made for each other. Your mum brought out the best in a lot of people. Your father was no exception.” Snape’s eyes flickered up to meet Harry’s only briefly. “You won’t want to pay attention to me in the memory. As you might expect, it wasn’t a happy realisation.”

Harry stared down at the phial glittering with the silvery substance. Snape had said that the gift had cost him nothing. Harry rather suspected it cost him more than he had let on. Harry found himself unspeakably moved by the gesture, by this small kindness he had never imagine Snape capable of. “Professor,” he started, “I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m no longer your professor, Potter,” Snape growled with an irritation that sounded a little put on.

“Right. Then you can call me Harry,” Harry said, grinning. “And I’ll call you – “ Snape gave him a forbidding glare. “Er, Sir?” Harry finished lamely. 

Snape snorted in apparent amusement and then stood. “I suppose you’ll be wanting breakfast,” he grumbled.

“Let me,” Harry said, snorting at the doubtful look Snape cast him. “Come on, it’s the least I can do after this,” Harry raised the phial.

“If I had known I would be punished for it, I wouldn’t have bothered,” Snape said dryly. 

Harry successfully refrained from pulling a face at the man, but had to repress the urge once more when Snape insisted on supervising his breakfast efforts. Cooking omelettes wasn’t exactly as critical as a Draught of Living Death, but you wouldn’t know it by the way Snape was sneering at Harry’s chopping skills. When he got a particularly nasty look for chopping his onions too roughly, Harry set Snape to work on the veg chopping, while he concentrated on grating cheese and beating eggs. Once the former Professor was put to good use, the atmosphere lightened again considerably.

He had to admire the man’s work with a knife. Everything was done so quickly and cut so evenly that Harry reckoned that Snape could give any electric chopper a good contest. He supposed that after so many years of preparing ingredients for school children, the man was bound to be an expert. But he also knew that Snape’s expertise had been developed long before the man became a Hogwart’s professor.  
Harry became aware of the man staring at him with an eyebrow raised in expectation. “What?” he said, dumbly, almost simultaneously realising that he had stopped beating the eggs to simply admire the other man’s work. Harry gave a sheepish smile. “You’re so quick,” he said with a laugh. “It’s really nice to watch.” He could feel himself blush at sounding so bloody stupid. He picked up the fork again to give the eggs another good beating before adding the cheese, the onions and green peppers.

After the omelette was set to gently cook, and rashers were sizzling away and the toaster was working its own subtle magic on the white bread, Harry began to gather place settings until he realised that the table had already been set. What’s more, there was a fresh pot of tea on the go and some orange juice out on the table. He met Snape’s appraising eye and then decided to turn away from the man again. It was a lot easier to work when he didn’t know Snape was watching him.

Harry used a fork to turn the rashers and then stared down at the omelette with trepidation. In hindsight, he should have proposed scrambled eggs. They were much less difficult to bugger up completely, and ultimately his carefully planned omelette was as likely as not to wind up looking slightly scrambled anyway. He braced himself for the ridicule he knew he would get. When it was the Dursley’s chastising him for his imperfect eggs – another broken yoke, too runny, too hard, not hard enough – it was easier to shrug off as the Dursleys just being their usual moaning selves. But he respected Snape and, whether he would ever admit it out loud or not, it had always mattered to him what Snape thought of him. It had always mattered that Snape thought him incompetent.

Harry took a deep breath, silently resigned to the fact that he would inevitably meet the man’s expectations once more. Holding his breath, he took the handle of the frying pan and made a quick jerking motion, flipping the round omelette over. Amazingly it landed, mostly in one piece with a few broken bits. Harry was ridiculously pleased with himself. So pleased that he narrowly missed burning the bacon. “Bugger,” he muttered, removing both omelette and rashers from the fire. “I hope you like crispy bacon,” he said with an apologetic grimace. He turned the rashers out onto a plate lined with kitchen roll and then distributed two semi-circular omelettes onto the plates (hiding the broken bits underneath his own). The toast had already made its way to the table and had been buttered. It occurred to Harry that the toaster might have been charmed. 

He gave himself a congratulatory smile and then nervously raised his eyes to gauge Snape’s reaction. He tried to tell himself that no comment was always considered to be high praise from Snape. It was probably a little absurd to want something more from the man. It was just breakfast, after all. It wasn’t as though Harry had put his heart and soul into it, even if his omelette flipping had been a great success.

“Happy Christmas, Pro... sir,” Harry said before picking up his fork, trying to fight his unreasonable disappointment. What had he expected from Snape, of all people? Did he expect gratitude? For an omelette?

“Happy Christmas,” Snape answered, unfolding his napkin and laying it across his lap. “Harry,” he added.

Harry’s mouth was fortunately empty when it dropped open. An explosion of something indefinable went off in his chest. Happiness. Or victory. Harry’s grin spread uncontrollably over his face. 

Snape’s eyes glittered with amusement. “One might use magic to flip his omelettes, but then, it isn’t as though you’ve just spent 7 years of your life at one of the best schools the Wizarding world has to offer...”

Harry glared half-heartedly. It wasn’t proper criticism. He wouldn’t have been able to say when precisely he’d learnt to tell the difference between Snape’s barbed criticism of his work and what passed for light-hearted teasing, but the subtlety made all the difference. Harry shrugged. “Must have missed your lesson on the fine art of omelette making,” Harry jibed back.

The smile he was rewarded with raised his spirits further. He reached for a piece of buttered toast. “Could you please pass the jam,” he asked politely. “Severus,” he added daringly, not bothering to purse away the cheeky grin that had taken up residence on his face now. His face muscles ached with disuse. When was the last time he’d smiled so much? 

Snape grunted in mock irritation, but passed the jam anyway. Harry took it as begrudging permission and mentally tallied up yet another victory. It was shaping up to be a Happy Christmas indeed.  
“It isn’t my business, of course, but is there any particular reason you’ve chosen not to spend the holidays with Mr Weasley and his family?”

Harry’s happiness deflated rather suddenly. He covered up his unease with a sip from his tea cup. “You mean apart from my quest to find out what my dead potions master has been up to?” he said, trying for a light tone of voice and managing to sound just short of sullen.

Snape raised an expectant eyebrow. “Yes. Apart from that,” he said dryly. They had stayed away from any topics that touched on personal welfare up to this point. Harry had done his best to satisfy the man’s curiosity regarding the general state of the Wizarding world by offering the facts as he knew them in regards to all their mutual acquaintances. 

Harry shrugged and shoved a forkful of omelette in his mouth, stalling as he tried to come up something resembling the truth, but without the bitter emotion attached. “It’s the first Christmas after everything, you know. And with Fred and everything.” He waved his hand in a vague gesture, hoping beyond hope that Snape would leave well enough alone.

“Everything?” Snape repeated. He gave one of those looks that had always made Harry feel a little naked. An interminable silence grew between them. A silence that begged to be filled.  
Driven by nervousness, Harry obliged. “They’re coping fairly well, considering. George is a bit lost. Ron and Hermione have grown pretty close, though, and I think that helps him. Ginny...” At that roadblock, Harry veered again. “It’s been a tough year for everyone. I think it’s better that they spend Christmas, you know...as a family.”

Snape continued to stare at him, and it became clear that Harry still hadn’t given him what he was looking for. For the life of him, Harry couldn’t say what that was. “What?” he said, a little defensively now.

Snape scooped up a bit of the egg onto his toast and bit down, letting Harry silently stew in the panic of loose ends. “How is Miss Weasley?” he asked finally.

“Great,” Harry said emphatically. A rather obvious lie, considering everything. “Well, not great. But she’s okay, I suppose. As well as can be expected.” The sad truth was that Harry didn’t really even know how Ginny was holding up. He’d been so wrapped up in his own misery that he was only aware of Ginny in as much as she offered him comfort when he needed it. What a twat he’d become, he suddenly realised. He’d come to the conclusion a long time ago that he didn’t really deserve her, but to realise to what extent he was undeserving was like hitting a brick wall while flying at high speed.

“Headache?”

“Hm?” Harry looked up, and then realised he’d been rubbing his scar. It had become something of a nervous habit. He’d not felt so much as an itch there since Voldemort died, but the scar itself was so inextricably linked to all that had gone wrong in his life that he still rubbed it as though trying to erase the chaos. “No. I just...” He took a deep breath and let it out in a mirthless laugh. “Nothing,” he said.  
Harry stood, suddenly deciding he’d eaten enough. He scraped his plate into the bin and was about to start cleaning up the pans, when everything suddenly disappeared as he was grabbing for it. Harry turned to see Snape, wand in hand, sneering at him. 

Harry gave a sheepish smile. 

“You might just tell me to mind my own business,” Snape spat.

Harry sighed and then lowered his eyes to stare at his finger nails. “Things have just been... weird since last summer,” he said. “I don’t like to talk about it.” He laughed. “I don’t really know how to talk about it,” he amended. And that was more to the point. How could he explain actually feeling worse since killing Voldemort? How could he possibly explain, without sounding completely daft, that his life seemed somewhat pointless now that Voldemort was no longer a problem?

Snape waved his wand to send his own plate away and then leant against the kitchen counter. He crossed his arms over his chest. It had taken Harry a couple of days to get used to seeing the man without the impressive swirl of robes around him. Dressed down to a simple pair of close fitting black trousers and a dark grey cardigan over a white t-shirt, Snape looked almost too human. It went with his new, too human personality. Death seemed to have been the best thing to happen to him.

Snape swept his hair from his face and tucked a strand behind his ear, before folding his arms over his chest again. “Things are bound to be weird,” he said, sagely. “You’ve fulfilled your destiny. You’ve made the ultimate sacrifice and died to save the world,” Snape gave an ironic smirk. “Are you sorry you lived?”

Perhaps “human” was stretching the description a bit far. It occurred to Harry that his old potions master hadn’t died after all. “What kind of question is that?” he spat angrily. “Of course I’m not sorry-“  
Snape rolled his eyes. “It’s a candid question, Potter. Candour, meaning blunt honesty. You should try it sometime. I assure you it can be quite refreshing.”

Harry snorted. “Why would I be sorry I lived?” he said incredulously, although part of him understood that it wasn’t such a stupid question. Was he sorry he’d lived? Would it not have been just easier to have stayed dead, to have not taken the road back?

Of course it would have been. But it wouldn’t have been right.

Snape shrugged slightly. “Forgive me for attempting to read between the lines,” he droned. “The first day you were here, you complained that after having defeated Voldemort, you still had to sit your NEWTs. You were much aggrieved when I insinuated that you would have preferred special treatment ,” - he pre-emptively cut Harry off with a raised hand – “which under the circumstances would be wholly justified, in my opinion. But if I am to take you a face value,” he made a look as though to communicate the enormous leap he was making by doing so, “and give you the benefit of the doubt, I would have to surmise that your NEWT exams seem somehow superfluous now after having basically done what you were always meant to do. And perhaps now, you’re not altogether certain what to do next.”

Harry stood stunned for a moment. “You got all that from one offhand comment about my exams?”  
Snape snorted and shook his head. “An offhand comment,” he admitted. “Your somewhat troubled and haunted appearance, the fact that you’ve chosen to separate yourself from the only family you’ve known at the time of year when we all yearn to be with family.” Snape took a deep breath. “Or perhaps I flatter myself to think I am in the unique position to understand exactly where you might be coming from.”

“You regret living?” Harry asked, wondering why Snape would have gone through so much trouble to ensure his survival only to regret it later.

“We were discussing you,” Snape said firmly.

Harry frowned. “What happened to candour?”

“I have yet to see you practice it.”

Harry let his annoyance go with a long breath. “I don’t regret living,” he said, uncertain about the truth of his statement. “I just don’t know what I’m meant to do now. “

“What do you want to do?” Snape asked him. 

Harry shrugged. Nothing, he thought. It was really what he wanted. Nothing. He didn’t want to die so much as he wanted to stop being. Sometimes that feeling was so overwhelming, he thought he might disappear through sheer willpower. But he never did. “What about you?” he asked, desperate to get the focus off himself, although he didn’t really expect it to work.

“I’ve spent the last seven months reflecting on that very question,” Snape said. “I suspect I will travel until I find the answer.”

“Where will you go?”

Snape snorted. “Are you planning to follow me?” 

Harry lowered his eyes and took a deep breath before raising them again. “Would you mind?” he said, quietly. He was sure the man had never looked so uncomfortable in his entire life. He managed to keep the pleading expression for all of two seconds before breaking down into giggles at the look of sheer terror in Snape’s expression. 

Snape narrowed his eyes. His lips twitched from a suppressed smile now that he realised that this had been a joke. As though Harry would ever want to tour around the world with Snape. What a pair they two would make. 

Harry pointedly ignored the epiphany that this was the first time he’d ever left Britain and present company didn’t make such a terrible travelling companion after all.


	3. Bridges

Severus was startled awake by a shout in the neighbouring room. It was the second time tonight. The third night in a row. It was a bloody nuisance. Had the foolish boy managed the discipline necessary to learn Occlumency, he wouldn’t have this problem. Severus wouldn’t have this problem. If the stupid boy would talk about what was plaguing him, instead of just shrugging and claiming to have slept “fine, thanks” Severus might get a sound night’s sleep.

But the boy wouldn’t talk, and he’d clearly abandoned any attempt at clearing his mind before sleeping. If he’d ever made any real attempt at all, which Severus sincerely doubted.  
Severus could hear the groan of the bedsprings and the soft shuffle of feet padding past his door toward the bathroom. He supposed the boy was taking pains to be as quiet as possible, but in a place like the chalet where no sound could be heard at all, the slightest sound reverberated through the quiet like a crash of cymbals. Severus sighed and slipped out of bed, reached for his dressing gown and slid his feet into his slippers.

Enough was enough. He’d done his best to offer subtle invitations to discuss whatever was bothering the boy, without giving him any ridiculous notions that he _cared_. He’d even left his precious store of booze at the boy’s disposal in the hopes that alcohol might offer the gift of dreamless sleep. But it wasn’t working, and Severus had recently grown quite fond of sleeping after spending years stalking the halls in search of a cure for insomnia. The fact that his new penchant for slumber was now being thwarted by someone else’s dark thoughts was unwelcome to say the least.

Severus went to the kitchen to put the kettle on and saw the beginnings of dawn lightening the sky outside. He heard the door of the loo open and seconds later felt the disturbance of the air behind him.

“Morning,” Potter said, yawning. “You’re up early.”

Severus spun around, eyes narrowed. “Sleep well?” he asked, baiting the lying little brat.

Potter nodded, eyes focussing on the kettle. “Fine, thanks.”

Severus managed to suppress the urge to hex the child. Why bother lying about it? What was the point? “I respect that you’re a private person, Mr Potter,” Severus began through clenched teeth. “You can trust me when I tell you I wouldn’t, under normal circumstances, pry. But this is the third consecutive night I’ve had my sleep interrupted by your nightmares, and now I’m afraid I shall have to insist that you elaborate on this shared experience.”

Potter’s mouth dropped open, his face going red. He closed it again, eyes flashing angrily and then, just as quickly, dulling over with weariness. “I’m sorry, _Severus_. I’ll put a silencing charm up tonight.” He moved to take the mugs from the cupboard.

Severus sneered. A silencing charm would, of course, be effective to solve his part of the problem. But he thought the boy was rather missing the point, and that he’d deliberately ignored Severus’ selfless offer to help was maddening. “Potter, what the hell is the matter with you?” he snapped.

“ _Harry_ ,” the boy corrected him. “And what the hell do you care? I have nightmares. It’s hardly surprising, given everything. Don’t you have them?”

His eyes were bright and defiant again. Severus smiled unpleasantly. “No, _Harry_. I learnt a long time ago to clear my mind and discipline my thoughts. Occlumency, in short. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

Potter’s pink lips disappeared into a fine line. “Protection against _external penetration_ , Severus. I hardly think Occlumency is going to protect me from my own inner demons.” He rolled his eyes and poured out the tea.

The nerve of the brat to second guess him. “Sorry. I forgot I was speaking to the saviour of the Wizarding World. What on earth would I have to teach him?” Severus’ words dripped with sarcasm. He sneered again for good measure, before grabbing the mug of tea that had just been prepared for him and stalking to the door. He resolved to get as far away from the arrogant little idiot as he could before he broke him into a million insolent pieces. He took his place on the bench and cast a warming charm. He stared out into the vast purple-white landscape and sought the peace that once reigned there.

A few minutes later the door opened. Severus ignored the boy as he took his place next to him. Potter’s shoulder pressed against his own as he huddled into Severus’ warming charm. “Will it really help?” he said quietly.

Severus gave a disgusted snort. “No, Potter. I was feeling bored and thought I would torture you with vain hope.”

“I’m sorry.”

If the boy was faking contrition, he was making a pretty good show of it. Severus sniffed and sipped his tea, which, to be fair, was prepared to perfection.

“I wasn’t trying to pick a fight. I just... don’t like talking about it.”

“You say that like you’ve tried,” Severus pointed out, feeling reasonably certain that the boy would be so standoffish regardless of who had asked.

Potter didn’t answer, but let the silence draw out, interrupted only by the sound of waking birds. After a long moment, the boy said, “I’m supposed to be happy, you know? I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Severus looked over and frowned. “Why exactly are you supposed to be happy?” 

Harry gave him a bland look and rolled his eyes. “He’s dead. I did it. The world is free.” Potter gestured as though to say, and so on and so forth.

Severus thought he saw the problem. “And you’re not happy.”

“I’m relieved that it’s over. But...” Potter sighed and drank from his cup. He pulled his knees up to his chest. “I’m relieved,” he said decisively.

Severus snorted. “We’re all relieved. We all _should_ be relieved. No one said anything about happy.” Severus spat the word as though it came with a bad aftertaste. He wasn’t entirely convinced that happiness existed in any proper senses. He was absolutely certain he’d never experienced it. The entire notion that happiness was something to which one was entitled struck Severus as absurd. More likely, happiness was a myth designed to make people feel misery more keenly.

Potter rested his chin on his knees and looked out at the dawning morning. The snow reflected the rosy glow of the morning now and would explode in a conflagration of vibrant orange in a few moments. This was happiness in Severus’ mind. A cup of tea and peace at dawn.

“I dream about everyone who died,” the boy admitted on a whisper.

A chill that had little to do with the morning frost shivered through Severus. He wasn’t really sure what to say to that so he settled on, “It wasn’t your fault.” It was the type of thing one was expected to say, he thought.

“It was, actually.” The boy’s matter of fact tone made Severus turn toward him. “All I had to do was face him a bit earlier. Fred would still be here. Lupin. Tonks.” Potter’s gaze flickered over to meet his eyes briefly. He gave a cautious smile. “At least I can take you off the list. Although my nightmares haven’t quiet caught up with reality yet.”

Severus snorted impatiently. He was frankly tired of trying to explain to this boy that all the deaths in the war were not his fault. “You seem to be labouring under the delusion that the war was about you,” he said irritably. “I’ll admit that the Dark Lord was obsessed, but you were merely an obstacle in the way of a more sinister plan. Those people didn’t die for you, Harry. They died for a cause. They fought because they were brave and because it was right. Had you gone a minute too soon, you’d not have survived. Perhaps you missed out some crucial detail in your retelling, but as far as I could tell there was little margin for error. The sequence of events was just so that everything fell into place at exactly the right moment. My death included.”

Severus stood to escape the boy and his regrets. To escape his own hypocrisy, but he wasn’t about to admit that to himself now. He wasn’t made to be a counsellor to troubled youths. He’d been the head of Slytherin for many many years and what he appreciated most about his little serpents was their aversion to baring their souls.

Unfortunately, he heard the boy’s steps just behind him. It occurred to him that he’d taken the warmth away. “You can’t tell me to talk to you and then get angry with me for doing it. I didn’t want to talk about it if you remember. God, what the hell was I thinking?” The boy slammed his mug on the counter before stomping back to his room.

The boy had a point, but Severus wasn’t one to award points. He chased him down and stopped the bedroom door from being slammed in his face. “I’m not angry with you for talking. I’m irritated that you would take away the sacrifice these people had made by blaming yourself. It’s incredibly self-centred. If I had died, I assure you I would be quite irritated if those I battled with took the glory out of my heroic death by attributing it to a mistake someone else made.”

“Can’t you see their deaths were pointless,” Potter shouted. “And yours most of all! He killed you for a stupid wand that wasn’t yours in the first place!” The boy’s face turned an ugly shade of red, and his voice grew choked. For one alarming moment, Severus worried the boy would cry. He said a quiet prayer of thanks to unnamed gods when the boy brought himself under control.

“I’m not dead,” Severus pointed out uselessly; quietly so as to take the tone down a notch. He found himself once again in the middle of a puzzling argument with this boy that had no real foundation. They argued out of habit and bad habits die hard. “Death is never pointless,” Severus continued searching desperately for a way out of this trap he’d got himself into. Trying to make the thick child understand. “Death is difficult for those who are left behind, but each one changes the world in some significant way.”

Potter gave a cynical snort and slumped back onto his bed. “Yeah. George is alone. Teddy is an orphan.” He shook his head miserably.

“Every life has its tragedy, P-,” Severus took a deep breath. “Harry.”

“Some more than others,” the boy muttered sullenly.

Severus clenched his jaw, keenly aware that he was personally responsible for a great part of the tragedy that had befallen this particular boy. And while he’d spent the better part of a decade trying to make up for the chain of events he’d put into motion, he knew he could never truly make amends. “Mourn them,” he said quietly. “But eventually you will need to take a decision. Either you can live with the mistakes you made, real or imagined. Or you can’t.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to kill myself, Snape.” His surname slapped him like an icy whip. He was puzzled by the shock of it. 

He took a deep breath. “I’m glad to hear it. But there are many ways to die that aren’t physical. Trust me on that.” On that note, he decided he’d had enough of existential crisis for the day. He returned to his bedroom where he crawled under his duvet and stared up at the shadowy ceiling where he amused himself by poking holes through all his arguments.

-o-o-

In a lot of ways, after his argument with Snape, he felt better. He felt _normal_. Not that their truce of the past week hadn’t been pleasant. It allowed Harry to get to know the man a bit better outside the heated exchanges that had made up his previous experience with the Potions master. They had dozens of peaceable discussions, engaging conversations. They’d filled in all the existing gaps in one another’s understanding of the war with remarkably freely imparted information. It had been nice. But it had been surreal.

The fiery indignation that fuelled their argument made Harry’s blood boil and his heart beat a bit faster, searing away the fog of the funk Harry had been in for months. And after spending an hour seething in his room, running through the conversation again and again, Harry concluded that Snape was right. And a right bastard.

Somehow, that second thought pleased Harry. It reassured him that his Potions master was still alive and as vicious as ever. This man who had survived death was not some watered-down spectre of the Snape Harry grew to know and loathe. Harry realised how strange it was to find solace in the man’s capacity for cruelty, but he didn’t question it.

When Harry left his room, morning was well on its way to noon. He found Severus in front of the fire with a cup of tea and a book. The man looked up to find Harry standing sheepishly behind the other chair. “It was only a matter of time before we argued,” Harry said with a smile. “I was beginning to wonder if you were an imposter.” His smile grew to a grin at the sight of a smile suppressed too late. He could see the corner of the man’s mouth curl as though trying to decide whether the situation merited humour.

“I suppose after eight months of relative peace and quiet, it had to take a few days before I recalled how supremely annoying you are.” Severus closed his book and met Harry’s eyes. “For the record, I would like to stress that I was not actually advocating suicide,” he said stiffly.

Harry studied the man with a frown. He tried to work out if that was some sort of apology or if Snape actually thought he was stupid enough to have completely missed the point the man had been trying to make. He was about to reassure the man, _again_ , when Snape spoke.

“And by that I mean, if you even consider it, I will find a way to kill you myself.” A small humourless smile. “In other words,” Severus said, belabouring his point to death, “Snap out of it, Potter. People die. If not from war, than from sickness or accidents, or because they can’t be bothered to carry on anymore. Their deaths are painful for us to bear, but we move on because there is always some small hope that life will bring us pleasure on the other side of grief.”

Harry sat heavily in the chair. “Severus, I have never considered killing myself.” He was rather annoyed to have to repeat it. “Sometimes I’ve wished that I never came back from the other side; but never seriously. I’ve wished that I could stop...” His eyes flashed to gauge the man’s reaction. He couldn’t believe he’d just admitted that. And to Snape.

“Stop? What.”

Dead men told no secrets, Harry reminded himself. Snape was a living journal.

“Existing,” Harry said, raising his hand to finger his scar. “But I don’t think I’d ever be able to face all those people on the other side if I did something so selfish. My mum and dad died to protect me. Sirius. Dumbledore. You.” He gave a wry grin. “I know you think I’m self-centred, but I could never be that self-centred.”

Severus watched him for a moment, those dark fathomless eyes boring into his soul as only they, and perhaps Dumbledore’s could. Finally he nodded, satisfied. “I’m not very adept at dealing with the misery of others,” he said quietly. “If Dumbledore were here, he’d be able to say something poignant and reassuring and sufficiently befuddling that you’d feel better without really understanding why.” He allowed himself a small fond smile in memory of the man’s talents.

“I don’t expect you to deal with me,” Harry said, really rather wishing people would stop trying to _deal_ with him. “I’ve had trouble adjusting. That’s all. The lack of sleep doesn’t help.”  
“Which brings us back to what I tried and failed to communicate earlier. I can try and help with that.”  
Occlumency. Harry gave the man a wary look. Nothing good could come of those lessons. “We haven’t got much time,” he said quickly. “And it went rather pear-shaped last time, didn’t it.”

Snape grunted, conceding the point. “It isn’t like learning to occlude,” he said. “Most of it is practise that you will have to do on your own. But the fundamental part, the discipline, has to come from you.”  
Harry tilted his head to the side, considering. “What do I need to do?” he said cautiously. 

“Clear your mind.”

Harry breathed a heavy sigh and turned his eyes skyward, praying for strength. “You know, it doesn’t matter how many times you repeat it, it isn’t going to help me learn _how_. How do you just stop thinking? You must have started somewhere. Who taught you?”

Snape blinked and then frowned. “Dumbledore,” he said. The man stared off for a moment as though lost in the memory of learning. He nodded to himself. “He envisaged light. That didn’t work for me, but it might for you. Stare at the fire.”

Harry, who wasn’t certain he’d actually agreed to try this yet, decided to humour the man anyway for the sake of the peace. He did as directed, watching the flames dance within their stone enclosure.  
“Breathe deeply,” Snape said in a low voice that was actually really pleasant to listen to when it wasn’t laden with sarcasm and cruelty.

Harry felt slightly awkward, but complied as much as possible. Breathing in and out in time with Severus’ own demonstrative breaths. Random thoughts sped through his mind. He had an itch on his nose. He felt a total prat. He wondered fleetingly what Ginny was doing. His eyes watched the flames flicker.

“Now, you’re going to close your eyes and imagine the light of the fire filling you.”

Harry cast a doubtful look in the man’s direction but closed his eyes nevertheless. The flames continued to burn against the backdrop of his eyelids. He breathed in and out. He spared a moment to imagine what Ron would say if he could see him now and then wondered if Ron and Hermione had done it yet. Remembered his own fumbling go at sex with Ginny in the summer. Imagined the Burrow would be rather crowded at the moment. He watched the flames dance.

“Let your thoughts come. Acknowledge them and release them into the flames. Concentrate on your breathing and the light. Stay focussed.”

Easy for you to say, Harry thought unkindly, and then released a mocking picture of Snape into the flames, imagining it burning to ash. His breathing came slow and steady. He was hungry, he thought and watched the toast burn to dust. The memory of Voldemort flashed unbidden in his mind, and it too was consumed and blew away on an expelled breath.

And as he sat, flooded with light and breath, his thoughts came less frequently. His body tingled faintly and relaxed into a state of semi-consciousness. He was distantly aware of the man breathing in the chair next to him, but each time his attention caught on that awareness, Harry released the image into the flame where it smouldered and disappeared.

“Enough for now, I think,” a smooth dark voice whispered into the silence of his mind, calling him out of his meditative state. Harry blinked his eyes open. He felt remarkably rested and suddenly wide awake.  
“You’ll want to practise that before sleeping,” Severus told him. The man looked pleased with him, which was totally unheard of. Harry smiled.

“Thanks,” he said.

Severus nodded. “If you practise enough, you’ll be able to attain that state at will. It’s somewhat more difficult to control the thoughts, which is what Occlumency requires, but it’s possible once you’ve practised clearing your mind. I can’t promise you immediate results. How quickly you progress is entirely up to you.”

“Did you learn quickly?” Harry asked. He tended to avoid asking Snape personal questions, as the man always seemed, at best, reluctant to answer. At worst, he was insulting and caustic. Harry’s curiosity, however, as it so often did, made him throw caution to the wind.

The man gave him a level look. “I was highly motivated to master Occlumency. The cost of failure was too high to contemplate.” Death, Harry understood. Either Severus’ or Lily’s. Harry suddenly regretted bringing it up. Snape continued. “But I won’t pretend it was easy. I was better placed than you at the beginning. I had already managed the discipline necessary to achieve a clear mind. For much of the magic I was interested in, a clear, focussed mind was a prerequisite.”

Harry chewed the inside of his lip, wondering if he dared enter down the path of logical conclusions. “Dark magic?”

Severus’ eyes narrowed but the rest of his face remained impassive. “Complex spell work,” he answered evasively. “Incantations. Potions. I am cerebral by nature, Potter. I enjoy the challenge of complicated magic. Light or otherwise.”

Harry nodded, mentally fleshing out the details of the man in front of him with what he knew of Snape as a teenager. Harry’s old friend the Half Blood Prince – one of the best teachers Harry had ever had. “How many spells would you say you’ve developed?”

Snape looked surprised at the question. The expression was so rare on the man’s face that Harry smiled to see it. A far more familiar smug look replaced Snape’s astonishment. “To date, twenty-three. Very soon to be twenty-four.”

“Bloody hell,” Harry breathed. “How do you do it?”

“Necessity is the mother of invention. For instance I find myself in a situation today where I’m required to avoid attention. To disguise myself. What are my options?”

“Polyjuice,” Harry supplied.

Snape nodded. “Takes a long time to prepare. It would be difficult to maintain on a long term basis as it requires a never-ending supply of bits.”

“Glamour.”

“Easy to detect, and it’s difficult to get precisely the same result every time. So as I begin to travel and, gods forbid, meet people, a glamour will become too complicated to be a long term solution.” Snape grew animated as he shot down Harry’s suggestions and took him through his thought processes. It was a bit like watching Hermione work, but somehow more interesting. He was finally getting to know the mind behind the potions text. “Aversion charms, “ Snape continued, “would render me all but invisible to everyone – not conducive if you want to be served in a restaurant or to meet someone.”

“So you’re working on some sort of disguising spell?”

Snape shook his head. “What I need is something focussed. Eventually I imagine I will settle some place. I have no desire to alter my appearance indefinitely. But I need to avoid recognition by those who would know Severus Snape. Something undetectable and subtle but targeted toward people who don’t expect to see me.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “And you developed that?”

Snape smiled primly. “I’m close,” he said with quiet satisfaction.

Harry grinned. “Brilliant. You’ll have to teach me once you’ve worked it out,” he said. The irony that he was asking for another lesson from Snape was not lost on him.

“I don’t routinely teach others the magic I develop. The fewer people who know a spell the less likely it is to be countered,” Snape said sagely. “The last person in the world I would show is a future Auror.” The word was spoken like an expletive.

Harry rolled his eyes. “You can trust me with the secret of your existence, but not with a spell? Really?”  
Severus smirked. “Let’s consider my spell insurance in the case that my trust, as it were, is misplaced.”  
Harry snorted. “Oh ye of little faith,” he muttered. “It must be difficult to be you.” There was little trace of amusement in Severus’ expression, but no hint of softening resolve. “Oh fine,” Harry said childishly. “I don’t want to learn your spells anyway.”

Snape snorted at last. “If it’s any consolation, you already know more of my secrets than any living person.”

Harry laughed. “Lucky me,” he said grinning.

“Quite.”

-o-o-

“Your skiing seems to be progressing,” Severus said, his face impassive, covering a sense of profound satisfaction. Not because the boy learnt to ski. Three-years-olds learnt to ski in this country. 

Potter gave him a puzzled look. “How would you know?” he snorted.

Severus gave in to a small smug smirk. “I witnessed your lesson,” he said nonchalantly. Inside, he was punching the air in victory. Potter’s presence over the holiday had been advantageous. He was able to test his spell with someone who knew him well enough to recognise him. But Potter hadn’t recognised him. Even as he shared a table and a glass of mulled wine with the boy.

Potter’s nose wrinkled. “You might have told me you were coming. I could have... not skied.” He laughed. “We could have had lunch together.”

Severus raised an eyebrow, containing his pleased expression just a little longer. “We did. Well you did, and really, aren’t you a bit old for hotdogs and chips?” His grin broke through his attempt to restrain it.  
Potter looked confused and then realisation dawned on him. “You did it.”

Severus gave into the full force of his satisfaction. “I did it.”

“Bloody hell. That was you? At my table?” He shook his head. “You were drinking mulled wine,” he said. Severus watched him struggle to remember. To recall details. The boy gave up. “That’s one hell of a spell,” he said.

“Thank you. And that you can talk to me and recognise me now, tells me that the spell works perfectly.”

“It’s up now?”

Severus nodded. “Only those who expect to see me will be able to. Everyone else will see me, notice I’m there, but pay no mind. You can’t recall what the man sat with you looked like.”

Harry nodded. “It’s like a vague impression of male and dark-haired, but nothing more specific. I can’t even remember what you were wearing.” He shook his head again. “Well done. You really have to show me how to do that.”

Severus laughed. “Maybe in my will,” he teased. He was enormously pleased with himself. As well he should be – it had been a difficult spell to come up with. It had taken the better part of these eight months to develop. With the spell now functional, he could confidently face the world at large.

He lifted his glass of cheap sparkling wine that the boy had brought back from the village to celebrate the end of another bloody year. Potter followed suit. “Congratulations, Severus,” the boy said, beaming at him.

“Thank you.” Severus drank from his glass, successfully not making a face after. Fate was a peculiar thing, Severus reflected as he contemplated the bubbles in his glass. Had someone told him last year at this time that on the eve of the last year of the 20th century he’d find himself sitting with Harry Potter (of all people), listening to the countdown on the wireless and toasting the dawn of a new life, he might have recommended St Mungos.

And yet...

Jem Jordan of the wireless international began the ten second countdown to 1999. Normally Severus didn’t buy into the whole tradition of New Year’s Eve. He found the entire concept laughable that one arbitrarily chosen day of the year would be singled out and celebrated with some misguided, optimistic idea that tomorrow things would be different. Tomorrow we would change our habits of a lifetime which would, in turn, open doors to those dreams that would certainly come true. Tomorrow.

It was a universal day of procrastination and Severus found the whole event deplorable. Usually.  
But this year was different. The atmosphere was pregnant with the culmination of decades of work. Severus could feel the buzzing of kinetic energy. Of change, for better or for worse. The year 1999 would be categorically different. He was filled with a rare sense of possibility, of anticipation. Having spent the last ten days or so working through two decades worth of history, and having finally accomplishing that one last thing that he needed to do before moving on, he felt ready to meet whatever this stolen second chance had to offer him.

“Happy New Year,” Harry said as the sound of fireworks spilled from the wireless.

“Happy New Year,” Severus echoed, touching his glass to Potter’s once more. The beginning chords of Auld Lang Syne began to play and Severus couldn’t think of a more fitting soundtrack to the moment. He laughed at the perfection of it.

“What?” Potter asked, eager to join in the merriment.

“The song,” Severus explained.

“Oh.” Potter listened a moment. “What about it?”

“I was reflecting on the appropriateness of it.”

“Ah.” Potter went quiet again to listen, which would do him little good if he didn’t speak the dialect. Severus watched him give up the effort, unwilling to confess ignorance.

It annoyed Severus that this boy, who was part and parcel of his moment of perfection, couldn’t properly appreciate it. “It’s a story of two acquaintances who come together over a pint and rehash old times,” he explained, rather succinctly. “The song asks the question, should we leave the past behind and all those who have played a part in it. The song then responds that no, the past should be remembered.” He ended his lecture. The magic of the moment had now passed, but he was satisfied by the amused smile on the boy’s face that he’d finally managed to get it.

“To auld lang syne,” Potter said, raising his glass again.

Severus frowned. “Good riddance,” he muttered. “So have you made any resolutions for the end of the century?” 

Potter snorted and shook his head. “To work out what to do with the rest of my life,” he said dryly.

“Good luck with that.”

“What about you?” the boy asked, pulling his feet up onto the seat of his chair.

“I suspect my life will change with or without my resolutions,” Severus answered. He waved his wand to banish the glass and to summon something more palatable. He held up the bottle of whisky in question.

Potter nodded and seemed rather happy to get rid of the rubbish he’d purchased. “I suppose I’ll finish school and go into Auror training.”

“Predicting the inevitable future hardly counts as making resolutions,” Severus pointed out with a smirk. “You might resolve, for instance, to stop chasing after mysteries. Or to avoid near-death experiences.”

Potter laughed. “Would make for a welcome change not to wind up in the infirmary at the end of the year.”

“As difficult as I know you will find it,” Severus teased. Or half-teased. The truth was that caring for the blasted boy’s safety had been a full-time job for many years and old habits were hard to break.

“I suppose you could resolve to stop terrorising children,” Potter quipped, his face a mask of smugness.

“I do not terr-“ Severus began and then closed his mouth at the look of sheer disbelief on the boy’s face. “I plan to avoid children whenever possible,” Severus finished haughtily. At Potter’s grin, he added, “Starting with you.” The cheekiness disappeared from the boy’s face. The wounded look that replaced it quickly disappeared into the whisky glass. Severus cursed the brat for being so bloody vulnerable and then cursed himself for caring.

“I think you’ll miss me,” the boy said after a moment. Severus was surprised to feel pleased to see the impudence return.

“I’ll pine away, I’m sure,” Severus drawled. “However will I spend my time without having to watch you don’t get yourself killed?”

“Bad habits are hard to break,” Harry laughed. 

Severus blinked to hear his own thoughts echoed back to him. “Indeed,” he nodded. The prospect that Potter would be out there somewhere in a world full of at-large Death Eaters and Death Eater sympathisers would certainly not help him sleep at night. While the greater danger had been eradicated, a sizeable portion of the Wizarding world would be sure to dream of revenge.

Severus pointedly redirected that line of thought. He’d done his job. Potter’s safety was no longer his concern.

“I know you’re irritated that Dumbledore sent me here,” Potter began hesitantly, “but I really would like to hear from you from time to time.”

Severus frowned. “Dead men don’t send postcards, Potter.”

The boy laughed. “It doesn’t have to be often. Once a year or so. Just so I know you’re all right.”  
Severus was more touched than he cared to admit to himself at the boy’s concern. He reasoned it was his sense of duty forcing him to insist. But Severus did not want to be anyone’s duty. He didn’t need a bloody bridge. “I assure you, I will be fine,” he said.

“Severus –“ Potter pleaded. It was still unspeakably strange to hear his name pass those lips, but the boy was persistent and Severus couldn’t abide by being called Professor Snape anymore. Still, he couldn’t help but feel slightly uncomfortable about their move toward familiarity.

Severus watched the boy struggle to put his undoubtedly heartfelt argument together. “I don’t know why Dumbledore sent me here. I never knew why he did a lot of things. I can only say that he always had his reasons, and they were usually good ones.”

“Potter-“ An annoyed look passed the boy’s face. Severus pursed his lips a moment before soldiering on. “The Headmaster was labouring under the delusion that I might need some contact with the Wizarding World. I can assure you that he was wrong. I am only too pleased to burn these bridges, and I will not tolerate anyone – dead or otherwise – meddling.”

“You may not need it now, but you never know when something might come up,” the boy argued. He growled in frustration and brought his hand to his forehead to touch his scar. “Maybe I need the contact,” he said quietly. “I owe you a hundred life debts, _Severus_ , and – “

Severus laughed out loud at the ridiculous statement. “The very thought of you owing anyone anything is frankly laughable. After what you’ve done I think you can consider all your debts paid.”

“All of them but yours,” Potter said with ferocious determination. “I left you to die. I know now that it was for the best, but that doesn’t change the fact that I did nothing to save you.”

“You do realise that I alone am responsible for every bad thing that’s happened to you in your life.” There it was. Spoken. Acknowledged. 

Potter shook his head slowly. “Voldemort was responsible. You were just a misguided kid.”

An easy excuse, Severus thought. Young though he undoubtedly was, he had never been stupid. He had only been too pleased to gain favour with the Dark Lord. He knew someone would die over it, but he didn’t care until it became clear that it was someone he knew and loved. “I killed your parents, Potter. The Dark Lord threw the curse, but I am responsible for sending him in their direction. Me.” The stupid boy knew this. “How could you possibly forgive that?”

Potter looked stricken. He stared for a moment before clearing his throat. “Because one of us has to,” the boy said quietly. “And if we’re going along that logic, I killed Sirius. Bellatrix threw the curse, but I sent him in her direction.”

Severus’ mouth dropped open in mute protest. After a moment he recovered enough to say, “Black went of his own accord.”

“If I’d made an effort at Occlumency, Voldemort couldn’t have tricked me. I wouldn’t have gone to the Ministry, and he wouldn’t have had to follow.”

This was clearly a well worn line of reasoning. Severus wondered just how many deaths this boy regularly wrecked himself over. 

“We make quite the pair you and me,” Severus said dully.

The boy’s laugh exploded through the room. “Yeah,” he said, once it had subsided. “And that’s the point, isn’t it? I think you’re the only one who understands... this. Me... I don’t know. And while I won’t say I understand you, I at least understand a bit of you. And everyone needs someone like that, right?”

It suddenly occurred to Severus that the boy had hit upon what surely passed as Dumbledore’s logic. This was the reason he’d forced them together. Severus may not need the boy. But the boy needed Severus. Then again, by Dumbledore’s logic, he probably thought Severus needed the boy, too. Of course, that was ridiculous.

“Once a year,” Severus conceded. He supposed it wouldn’t last long anyway. The memory of youth was short and Potter would certainly move on after a couple of years, at most. 

Potter smiled. “Thanks.” He finished the contents of his glass and then grinned at him. “You could sign with the acronym HBP.”

“Harry Bloody Potter?” Severus said.

Potter rolled his eyes. “Half-blood Prince.”

“Ah.”

-o-o-

Severus leant against the wall, watching the boy pull his boots on, his over-large winter coat. He felt ridiculously awkward and uncharacteristically sentimental knowing that this was likely to be the last time he ever saw the boy. Over the course of the week, the boy had gone from being the very symbol of his regret to being... well, a boy. A rather likeable boy, surprisingly. Not quite as mediocre as he’d always imagined. Not nearly as arrogant had he’d always thought. Not arrogant at all, if Severus was honest. He was Lily’s son. Just as Dumbledore had always told him he was.

Severus had to admit to being sorry to see him go. It had been a pleasant week. He’d grown used to having someone around to speak to, to argue with. To be silent with. The little chalet would feel just that little less welcoming once Potter disappeared. 

“All set?” Severus said as Potter straightened and looked at him.

The boy nodded. He’d been suspiciously quiet all morning. Severus rather thought the boy regretted leaving as well. “Well, Mr Potter. It has been an unexpected pleasure to have you here.”

For his part, Harry was trying to fight back an absurd urge to cry. He couldn’t say why exactly. He wasn’t the crying type and this was _Snape_ he was leaving. But he didn’t want to go, and the knowledge that he wasn’t likely to see the man again wasn’t helping. “Once a year,” he managed to say. He met the man’s eyes, trying to determine whether Snape intended to honour that agreement.

Snape nodded. “Once a year,” he said.

“Or I come looking for you,” Harry said with a small smile.

Snape gave him an unimpressed look, but nodded again.

“What will you do?” Harry asked for the hundredth time. He didn’t expect a straight answer, but he couldn’t help but try.

“Fate has a way of nudging us on the right path eventually,” Snape said. “Until then, I will travel.”  
Harry wrinkled his nose. “Do you really believe in Fate?”

Snape snorted. “Not at all,” he said and then smirked. “But Fate doesn’t seem to pay any mind to my beliefs.”

Harry laughed lightly. He thought he would miss the man’s sense of humour. He felt privileged to know the man even had one. He was reasonably certain there weren’t many who knew that.  
If there was one thing Severus hated, it was drawn out goodbyes. It was a brand new revelation, never having really experienced one. He stuck out his hand to hurry things along. Potter reached hesitantly forward to grab it. “Farewell, Harry,” Severus said, gifting the boy with his name just for the simple pleasure of seeing him smile at the sound of it.

“Goodbye, Severus,” he said. The boy didn’t release his hand, but met his eyes. “I’ll never see you again, will I?”

A sharp pain pierced through Severus’ chest. His throat closed momentarily. He breathed to clear it. “Never say never,” he said vaguely, unable to admit to himself that this was truly the last time he’d see the boy. That he would never really know what kind of a man the boy would become.

The boy appeared heartened by Severus’ evasion and smiled again. “Take care,” he said quietly, releasing Severus’ hand.

“Be safe,” Severus answered as the door closed behind the boy. He could hear the faint pop of the boy’s exit from his life.


	4. Epilogue

Harry’s return to Hogwarts had been uneventful, but good. He felt better than he’d felt in months, and even Hermione and Ron had commented on how good the break had done him. He had told them the truth about Switzerland, claiming it was a spur of the moment decision to stay there and learn to ski. While everyone, Ginny included, had looked at him as though he’d gone mad, everyone seemed to appreciate the change in him enough not to say anything further.

Harry sat ensconced behind the curtains of his four-poster, staring down at his Christmas gift from Hermione – a Pembroke’s Pocket Penseive. It was a thoughtful gift, and the gratitude he’d shown Hermione for it was quite sincere. She claimed it would help him sort his thoughts out, but they both knew that it was so that he could revisit the memories of his mother that Snape had imparted to him. It would also allow him to visit the newest addition to his collection of Snape’s memories.

The stone lid slid open around a hinge to reveal the silvery substance inside, which illuminated the confines of his bed. Harry carefully unstoppered the phial he’d received for Christmas and tipped the contents inside, watching as they swirled. After a moment of fighting off the strange reluctance to revisit his former Potion master’s thoughts, Harry leaned forward to look inside.

He landed in Hogwart’s Great Hall, decked out festively in garish seventies fashion. Candles and fairy lights twinkled all around as a soft melody played from enchanted instruments where the head table normally sat. He looked over to spy the younger version of Snape, looking slightly less greasy than Harry was accustomed to seeing him in this era. His lank hair fell forward into his face, blocking his expression from view. Only his large hooked nose remained visible. His dress robes reminded Harry of the ones Ron had been forced to wear their fourth year. It occurred to him as he looked around that Snape’s robes were not exactly unfashionable for the time. 

Harry’s eyes swept over the dance floor, catching on the vision of the Headmaster, looking younger and more sprightly than the last time he’d seen him. Dumbledore looked graceful as he swept a younger and smiling McGonagall around the dance floor. Harry waited for the sorrow to come at the sight, but somehow it was kept at bay. He smiled and continued his search.

A mass of swaying couples suddenly parted, and then he saw them. His mother was beautiful in lime green dress robes which hugged a clearly flattering figure. His father was in formal black, with the same ruffling around the cuffs and neckline as Snape’s robes. James’ hair was tamed, slicked back in debonair style. Harry was struck by how similar a picture Ginny and he made together. He supposed he always knew on a subconscious level, but there it was staring him in the face. He wondered now if his attraction to her had something to do with longing to resurrect the man and woman now circling the dance floor. 

Snape had been right. They were perfect together, staring at each other as they moved gracefully to the music. His father looked nothing like the arrogant, cruel boy Harry had seen in previous memories. He seemed to have matured a bit since his fifth year. Or maybe it was just that all his attention was now on the girl in his arms.

As the music swelled, James spun Lily out with dramatic flair and her laugh rose above the music. Harry stood, enamoured with the sight of these two people, his own age, who danced as though the world would go on forever and would continue turning just for them. It was breathtakingly sad.

He glanced over at the boy scowling next to him, expression still mostly hidden by the safe curtain of hair. His heart reached out to him. He knew what this memory had cost Snape, despite Snape’s insistence that it had cost nothing. Harry had only a taste of the jealous longing of unrequited love, but it was nothing to what Snape had endured. 

Harry looked back as the song ended to be taken up by a faster number. Lily and James walked hand in hand away from the dance floor, followed by Sirius and a young blond witch. The magic had faded and Harry prepared to leave it. He took one more look at Severus to find that there was a young wizard by his side with golden blond hair and quite fine features for a boy. But for the short cropped hair and the wizard’s robes, Harry might have mistaken him for a girl. The boy’s grin glittered with what looked to be lip gloss of some kind, and his eyes were darkly lined.

Harry watched as the boy grabbed Snape by the arm and pulled him in to press his mouth to Snape’s ear.   
“Dorms’ll be empty, Severus,” he said loud enough to be heard over the music.

“Gods, Evan,” Snape breathed. “Not here.”

Harry’s eyes widened at Snape’s tone and he stepped back to assess what might have provoked the young man’s breathlessness. The wizard called Evan was groping Snape through his robes. The boy wore a wicked grin.

“Right then, come on,” he said and then ponced off toward the exit. 

The memory faded before Harry could find out if Snape followed or not.

Harry sat, back in his bed and staring at the small pocket penseive. He tried to come to terms with the end of the memory. An end that he didn’t suspect Snape had meant to include. An end that leant whole new dimension to the mystery that was Severus Snape. 

Snape wasn’t gay, Harry knew. The man had been so in love with Harry’s mum that his Patronus had morphed into hers. But, well this Evan character had seemed rather familiar with him. So did that make Snape bisexual?

Snape and sexual did not belong in the same train of thought; but clearly at some point this Evan character thought so. Harry tried not to wonder how many others had thought so as well. Sure, he and Ron had sniggered over the possibility that Snape might at some point have been sexually active, but those conversations invariably ended in disgusted shuddering.

Evan. Harry went through the list of known Death Eaters from Snape’s time at school and landed on Rosier as the likely Slytherin. A Death Eater that was killed by Aurors, his memory filled in for him. Did Snape mourn this one, too?

Harry felt something between pity and disgust as he put his pocket penseive back in its box and stowed it away in his trunk. Whatever Snape’s past, he’d made up for it, he told himself firmly. Harry had witnessed the remorse the man had felt when he realised the damage he’d done. He’d also witnessed all the man had done to make up for his one enormous mistake. Harry had already worked though this in his head and was not going to start rehashing it now.

He determinedly punched his pillow before laying back and closing his eyes. He pulled the covers up to his chin and began breathing as Snape had taught him to do. He released Severus’ breathy “gods” into the fire of his mind at least ten times before sleep came to claim him at last.


End file.
